


CRInktober 2019 Ficlet Compilation

by ModernDayBard



Series: CR Ficlets/Drabbles [1]
Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: F/M, Found Family, Grief/Comfort, Pokemon Crossover, Romance, Self-Insert OC, Spoilers for C2 1-29, but only in one chapter, reflection/introspection, spoilers for campaign 1, traveler shenanigans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-01
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-03 12:27:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 31
Words: 18,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21631084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ModernDayBard/pseuds/ModernDayBard
Summary: This year, I participated in my first-ever Inktober, as a writer. Originally, these were all posted to tumblr, but as half of my annual holiday fic tradition, I decided to re-upload them here, one a day, December 1-31.(Prompts are from the list posted by @crinktober on tumblr, twitter, and Instagram; I was working on catching up while writing, so the campaign 2 stuff was all written between episodes 3-29 or so, hence the early-campaign stuff there and the tendency to take a prompt into the world of campaign 1 in general. Hopefully by next CRInktober, I’ll be caught up.)
Relationships: Keyleth/Vax'ildan (Critical Role), Percival "Percy" Fredrickstein Von Musel Klossowski de Rolo III/Vex'ahlia, Scanlan Shorthalt/Pike Trickfoot, Zahra Hydris/Kashaw Vesh
Series: CR Ficlets/Drabbles [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1559092
Comments: 12
Kudos: 58





	1. FAVORITE CHARACTER: VAX’ILDAN

_“Can I ask… Are you afraid?”_

Some days, Grog can still hear his laughter and all but see the darting shadow of the escaping rogue after some prank had been discovered. Some days, he had to reach for his beard to be sure that both halves were still there, and the memory brought a growl to his throat.

Other days, Grog remembers the unexpected apologies, or the love potion—the final prank—and the surprisingly genuine compliments.

He never had caught him when he did not wish to be caught, but it didn’t matter: when it mattered, Grog knew exactly where Vax was—fighting by his side.

_“If you want us to fight her, just say ‘Jenga’, and we will.”_

Some days, Scanlan swears that he could look over his shoulder to see that stealthy asshole creeping up with one of his existential questions ready to launch the two of them into an incredibly deep, if uncomfortably too close to honest, conversation that always left him grumbling about gloomy rogues in creepy armor.

Other days, he can still feel the scrap of parchment in his hands, can still read the scrawled, ‘you were right;’ he remembers an undeserved, unreserved welcome back; he can see dark wings spread one last time, desperately trying to shield _him_ from a would-be god.

He can still feel the moment he released his most potent counter-spell, choosing to bind their foe in place so he could be banished, instead of freeing their friend so he could stay. But as he feels that despair wash over him again, Scanlan holds on to the memory of a smile through tears, filled with gratitude that someone was even willing to _try_.

_“I learned from Grog and Vax what it means to be a man, and to be a father.”_

Some days, Taryon can still feel the pommel of a dagger slam into the back of his head, hear a level voice unknowingly parrot the words the inventor had heard all his life—he wasn’t ready, wasn’t enough—he remembers the hemming and hawing before each carefully and heavily-qualified compliment, how slow acceptance had been to come.

Other days, Tary remembers the moment of true acceptance, the care he had taken to be sure that he and Doty did not find themselves alone in dire straights they were unprepared for, remembers him deliberately reaching for a dagger even as he urged the elder Darrington to remain civil in their confrontation.

Taryon remembers a time too brief, a farewell neither then knew would be final, and exactly where he hid his necklace the day it began to pulse and would not stop—has not stopped.

_“I do not accept this.”_

Some days, Percival can feel the fist make contact with his jaw—though the pain comes from broken trust and deserved blame rather than physical might. Percy can still see hesitation bordering on suspicion in his eyes after crossing too many dark lines, and remember the long trek back to friendship, then beyond.

Other days, Percy remembers Vax offering his image—his identity—to hide behind in order to get closer to vengeance on the Briarwoods, how willing he was to follow on that adventure, despite several brushes with death, remembers him insisting, in the end, that no one else risked their life for his.

Percy knows it is worse for Keyleth and—of course—Vex’ahlia, but he is still selfish enough to acknowledge his own pain every time he hears the echo of Vax’s voice call him ‘Freddie’… and ‘brother’.

_“Is there something we can do?”_

Some days, Pike can still feel him behind her, reaching for a lock of hair to twist into a braid or a bun. She can still hear him asking questions about gods and faith that she didn’t have the answers to—many she still doesn’t, but thinks he does, now. She remembers his pain and confusion, his floundering for guidance when the Raven Queen first claimed him. She remembers—if barely—the few weeks before then when he seemed to be pressing close to Seranrae, and she had begun to hope.

Other days, Pike can hear his laugh, remembers all he did to make _them_ laugh: the prank wars with Grog, egging on Scanlan’s antics, his own acrobatic shenanigans and tendency to vanish at the most (in)convenient times; she can still hear a Vax from what feels like several lifetimes ago mock-snap that he was “3/4 agnostic, but I know my foot is gone!”

Pike tries to smile, to be the light he always saw her as—that he asked her to be for the others. It’s hard, though, when she all but hears him teasingly call her ‘Pickle’ once again, and she fights back tears and forces out a whispered ‘String Bean’ for old times’ sake.

_“I feel like she’s taking part of me away.”_

There isn’t a day that goes by that Vex’ahlia _doesn’t_ remember Vax in some way—how could she? Taken from their mother by a father who ultimately and nearly immediately rejected them, each was all the family the other had before Vox Machina. And even then, within the family that band of idiot assholes eventually became, it was unquestioningly accepted that the bond between the half-elven twins was unparalleled. Once, they’d been inseparable.

Once.

Some days, Vex still catches herself turning to ask him something, or tell him something, or simply see his reaction, only to have the terrible truth that he is gone forever crash over her again. But those times are growing rarer now, as the knowledge grows colder and heavier that the piece of her that left in a flurry of feathers and snowdrops is gone forever.

She knows that she is not alone, surrounded by yet another family of her choice and make, and she has learned to live, as he asked her to—even happily, eventually—but as the long years of her longer life go by, there is not a day that Vex’ahlia does not miss Vax’ildan.

_“I’ll find you…I promise, I’ll see you again.”_

There hasn’t been a day that’s passed that Keyleth hasn’t remembered Vax: his (once) warm presence at her side, the sound of his whispered declarations of affection, his dark-winged silhouette against the sky, the smell of the herbs and oils he’d treated his armor with, the lingering taste of his lips on hers—perhaps not her first kiss, but certainly and forever her first love.

Rogue and thief though he’d been—once—Vax had stolen nothing she had not given willingly, including her heart, but there was no returning them before his dark goddess sundered the pair for the last time, and the Voice of the Tempest tries to comfort herself with the thought that, wherever he is now, the Champion of the Raven Queen has those pieces of her with him for company, always.

It rarely works.

She knows all too well the length of the span before her—that this parting is only the first of many terrible ones to come. Knowing makes it no easier, though, and though Keyleth knows that time may eventually mellow pain into something more bittersweet, tonight she merely lets herself grieve for her lost lover, her Vax’ildan.

_“And I walk away.”_

_…_

_…And every day, that raven comes to visit._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (And this is otherwise known as what happens when the prompt 'favorite character' comes up less than a week after finishing campaign one.  
Originally posted to my tumblr @moderndaybard)


	2. CAMPAIGN 1 OR 2: CAMPAIGN 1

They hardly seemed that impressive as they gathered in the Stilben tavern—just another group of inexperienced, inconsequential would-be adventurers looking ahead no further than the pay for their next job.

The impression they left barely improved as they marched their way through Westruun, a couple new faces in tow. Maybe they were a little better at their particular skills, marginally more cohesive as a unit, but still: simply mercenaries.

Right?

There was no question that they didn’t belong in Emon—those unsubtle fools tearing their way through the echelons of high society, the criminal underbelly, and every shop, street, alley, sewer, and secret cavern between. But luck or skill or fate or whatever unholy conversion of the three that had guided them so far placed them once again in the right place at the right time to save the sovereign himself, and they were elevated beyond expectation.

If the incidents beneath Kraghammer and in and around Vasselheim proved anything, it was that this group of misfits could accomplish much—except, perhaps, passing unnoticed through a town (or, at least, without angering at least one person of note and upsetting at least one long-held tradition), but at least their reputation—such as it was—had begun to spread to the wider world.

But then came ruined Whitestone, and the terrors it held that had held it for years on end. And this most unlikely band of heroes came for friendship’s and loyalty’s sakes, and with the same refusal to lose, yield, or die that they’d had from the start, they forcibly pulled hope from amidst horror and helped rebuild that city on the ashes of its tyrannous tormentors.

But they had little chance to enjoy their growing renown before the dragons of the dread Chroma Conclave fell upon Tal’Dorei with fang, claw, and breath weapon. Refusing to cow to draconic terror, the once-belittled band crossed continents, seas, and even planes; reigniting hope, rallying resistance, gathering allies, seeking powerful weapons and magics wherever they could be found. In those weeks and months that felt like a year to a terrified world, rumors sometimes arose that they had lost one of their own—a fallen hero—only for the whispers of death to be silenced the next time the group emerged, whole and unbroken, to fell another of the beasts. Once more, they spat in the face of pessimism calling itself ‘sense’ and tore victory from fanged jaws, claiming it on behalf of all of us.

There was hardly a person in all of Tal’Dorei who did not then know them by name if not by sight, then, and many in the lands and planes further-flung had heard the stories, as well.

And, for a year, it was quiet.

Oh, there were hints and tidbits of activity: A finished Aramenté and confirming of tribal leadership, mentions of a trip to hell, the crisis orbs were established, and some spokenof a collapsed mine in Wildemount—even whispers of a secret wedding, But still, over most of the world, a year of peace, quiet, and rebuilding passed in what felt likely merely the span of a few weeks.

Then that too-fragile peace was abruptly shattered in the wake of terror brought by the lich that sought godhood, blotting out the sky even as he drove an unliving mountain into Vasselheim itself. No one had been able to stop his ascension—who could stop his advance?

But unbeknownst to the wider world, they were already trying. At the greatest of costs to themselves, they chose to stand against him. Traveling to the realms of the gods themselves, they took up the mantles of chosen champions, and found or fashioned means of banishing Vecna forever from this world. And though they themselves did not know if they could triumph, still they fought him, and, with the same strange intermingling of chance, destiny, and ability, the merely mortal defeated the would-be deity and secured the future for us—all of us. Though it cost them dear, they did not flee and saw their foe fall.

…

Who could’ve seen them in that Stilben tavern an predicted the heroes they would eventually become? Who among us ever even heard of them until after they freed Emon? And who can say, even now, what stings of fate pulled all things together to be as they now are?

I cannot day; you cannot say; perhaps even they themselves cannot say; but what they _have_ said—have shared—means the most to us, wherever in this world we call home:

_Gather close,_ they said. _Come together and listen: listen to the story of Vox Machina._


	3. POTION: ROADSIDE DIVERSIONS

The excitement of being on the road again faded quickly as Alfield vanished from sight, and Jester found herself quickly and unsurprisingly bored. As the cart jounced and bounced slowly along the road, the tiefling girl reached into her bag of pastries more for a distraction than out of true hunger.

To her surprise, she found a vial she didn’t remember putting in her pouch. Drawing it out, Jester saw the scrawled note, _‘For the little green one’s birthday,’_ just as she heard or felt the echo of a familiar laugh in her mind.

“Nott!” she squealed with glee, turning to the startled goblin, “it must _really_ be your birthday: the Traveler sent you a gift!” She presented the vial with a flourish, the somewhat thick liquid within shimmering with an iridescent variety of colors.

Nott swallowed, eyes darting around. “What—what is it?”

“I don’t know,” Jester admitted, studying the potion in her hand. “I’ve never seen anything like it before. Have any of you?”

Molly peered over her shoulder, interest obviously piqued. “Not that I can remember.”

Caleb, too, was looking at the mysterious liquid within, already pulling out the pearl from the night before. “Neither have I. Though, if you give me a minute—or ten…”

“You're sure that’s really from the Traveler?” Beau asked while the group waited.

“Of course!” Jester chirped.

“But how do you know?”

“Because I know the Traveler—he’s my best friend! …And I heard him laugh.”

For some reason, that only made Beau frown more.

Finally, Caleb looked up, the barest hint of a smile just barely visible on his dirt-covered face. “It is harmless—mostly. Almost positively. It’s meant as a joke, of sorts.”

The handful of glances directed Jester’s way all more or less said, _‘yeah, that makes sense.’_

“There is enough for a triple dose, or three people to have a single use.”

Beau folded her arms. “But what does it _do_?”

Caleb glanced at Nott, Jester, scanned the group, then looked back down at the potion. “I don’t think I’m supposed to spoil the joke. But it’s not dangerous, really, and the effect wears off very quickly—one minute.”

“Nu-uh.” Beau leaned away, shaking her head. “I’ve seen what _this _one thinks is funny—I’m not going anywhere _near_ that stuff.”

Nott shifted in her seat. “I don’t know about this, Caleb. That smiley wand last night was supposed to be a joke, but it _hurt_.” Yellow eyes wide, she turned to the human she’d quickly come to trust.

“That is alright, the wizard assured her, ruffling her hair a little. “You can decide what you want to do with your own present. Maybe you would want someone else to drink it.”

Jester was practically bouncing in place. “But what does it _do_, Caleb?”

Fjord, who was currently at the reigns, glanced over his shoulder. “Jester, you really have no idea? I thought you and the Traveler were really close, or somethin’.” (Apparently, the half-orc had been listening the whole time.)

“I totally am—we’re, like, super-duper close besties. But he’s _really_ good at surprises!”

Mollymauk glanced around the group, then shrugged. “Ah, what the hell. If you say it’s harmless, I’m willing to give it a shot.” The lavender tiefling reached out for the vial.

“Ooh! Ooh! Can I try it, too?”

Caleb looked form the two tieflings to his goblin friend. “This was your present, Nott. What do you say?”

“Now, hold on,” Fjord broke in again, “Caleb, if you say that’s not dangerous, then I reckon you’re right. But shouldn’t we save it, in case it comes in handy for somethin’?”

“Fjord, I promise you that this potion is not useful for anything but a laugh,” the Zemnian wizard insisted, which only made Jester reach out for it more.

Nott glanced around, still looking somewhat uncomfortable. “Well, if they _really_ want to, and you promise it’s not going to hurt them or anything…”

“Then, one mouthful each. And-uh- there may be a variety of reactions, so—for sake of the horse—you may want to walk beside the cart until it’s worn off.”

Jester and Molly met each other’s eyes, shrugged, then vaulted over the side of the cart simultaneously.

Caleb passed Molly the vial, and Beau, for all of her ‘I want none of this’ attitude earlier, leaned forward, watching eagerly. Nott held on to Caleb’s arm, already seeming to regret her choice, while Fjord slowed the cart, keeping a close eye on the two tieflings.

“Bottom’s up!” Molly knocked back his portion as if it were a shot, then passed the potion to Jester, who did the same before handing the vial back to Caleb.

For a second, the Mighty Nein stared at the two, waiting for something to happen…anything.

Abruptly, the two sneezed in unison.

At once, Molly was surrounded by three other Molly’s, all mimicking his every move (meaning, at the moment, they were peering at each other intently). Meanwhile Jester turned into a sheep.

There were more than a few yelps from the cart—and an oath from all four Molly’s simultaneously—but roughly six seconds later, the four tieflings (and one sheep) sneezed again.

The three extra Molly’s vanished, and Jester returned to her normal form—but glowing so brightly, they almost couldn’t see Molly cowering away from her.

Six seconds later, both sneezed again.

Molly stood straight again—but not so tall, having apparently somehow, lost seven inches in height, while source-less ethereal music could just barely be heard around Jester, who decided to dance to it, thankfully no longer glowing.

Another six seconds, another (two) sneeze(s).

Jester had no idea what all the commotion was about—to her perspective, everything looked normal once again now that the music was gone and Molly was back to his original height—as she was unaware that everyone but Molly (including her) was currently invisible, except, apparently, to her.

_*Achoo!*_

Jester again felt disappointed that nothing seemed to have changed about her, unaware of a temporary vulnerability of her and her allies, thankfully not in danger of a combat encounter at the moment. Meanwhile, Molly disappeared from beside her and abruptly appeared on the other side of the cart.

“Halfway there,” Caleb called, just as the two sneezed again.

This time, it was Molly’s turn to think nothing had happened (as he’d not been injured that day), but Jester caused enough excitement when her hand brushed against the cartwheel—which spontaneously caught fire.

By the time the others had doused the flames, Jester and Molly had sneezed again.

Once again, Jester felt unaffected (since she managed not to die in the interval between sneezes), and the only thing that seemed to change about Molly was perhaps a visible ageing of a handful of years? (It was honestly hard to tell with him.)

_*Achoo!*_

Jester was suddenly surrounded by flower petals and butterflies dancing in the air about her—but her attempt to grab them revealed them to be merely illusory and she sulked, disappointed. Molly, once again his proper age, found that he’d somehow turned a shade of blue even more vibrant than Jester, and he took the opportunity to silently asses how the color matched with his look.

_*Achoo!*_

A cloud of fog similar to the one Shakäste had cast the day before suddenly enveloped the area around Molly, hiding the fact that he was back to his usual shade of lavender. Truthfully, most attention was on a shrieking, inexplicably and unexpectedly bald Jester.

_*Eeee-achoo!*_

The fog disappeared, and Molly abruptly vanished from view (from that plane even, though they didn’t know that. When a (no longer bald) Jester attempted to point this out, pink bubbles floated from her mouth instead of sound, and the blue tiefling spent the next six seconds entertained by this phenomenon before the final sneeze came.

Molly reappeared, then, right where he had been, eyes wide and grin unsettlingly wide. Jester, meanwhile, flopped, laughing, onto her back in the road, kicking up her legs in glee.

“Are you both alright?” Nott called, peering around Caleb’s arm.

“Never better,” Molly replied immediately, still grinning. “And richer for the experience, to be sure.”

Jester sprang to her feet. “That was _so _much fun! Can we do it again, Nott? Can we? Can we? Can we?”

“Are you _shitting_ me?” Beau snorted. “We’ve got one use left of the best fucking distraction we could ask for, and you want to blow it _now?_ Fuck that, let’s save it.”

“At the very least, Jester, we could put it in the drink of the next rich, important asshole that pisses us off,” Molly offered as he helped Jester back into the cart, then took her offered hand up.

“Okay, fine,” the other tiefling conceded, before catching a startled Nott into a giant hug. “Anyway, happy birthday, Nott! The Traveler really _is_ with you!”

Nott swallowed at that thought, given the recent demonstration. “Oh, boy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (And, yes. I will fully admit that I decided to make the Wild Magic Sorcerer table into a potion, then rolled for Jester's and Molly's results. I only re-rolled results I had already rolled, so some of them got interesting to try to portray.)


	4. MONSTER: I’M NOTT

_“What the **fuck**?!”_

Torn to ribbons, bloody head to foot and barely standing, Nott somehow found the time between heartbeats to be hurt by Beau’s outraged shriek.

_I’m not a monster._

She hadn’t _wanted_ to kill the cub; she hadn’t gone in _planning _to kill the cub. It was tiny and helpless and manticores were (apparently) intelligent creatures. Honestly, she hadn’t even planned on killing the _mother_.

_I’m not a monster._

But then that weird gnoll-priest guy had frozen Fjord in place, and the mother manticore had been hovering in the air right above the half-orc, ready to rip him to pieces and leave him dead on the ground. The only one with time to react was Nott, and she’d chosen to do what was necessary.

_ I’m _ _ not a monster._

Threatening the cub wouldn’t have been enough, not when the mother’s full attention and fury needed to be pulled all at once from the helpless warlock. Nott was the slipperiest of the group, with a spell or two up her sleeve that might help her get away if she survived the initial barrage of retaliation, so the goblin rogue had made the call that no one else would or could, and stabbed the defenseless cub after shouting at the mother manticore—and then paid the price.

_I’m not a monster._

“What the _fuck_!?” Beau shrieked again as she grabbed and pulled the goblin from the creature’s jaws, tearing horrible wounds open even wider.

_I’m not a monster!_ Nott screamed internally as darkness claimed her vision. _I’m not! I’m Nott! I’m Nott! …_

_…_

_…I’m Nott, a monster._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, a little short, but I'd finished this particular episode a day or two before the prompt of 'monster' came up, and knowing a bit about Nott's story in advance, I couldn't resist this take on the prompt.


	5. DRINKS: PUB CRAWL

It was only a pub crawl by the barest technicality of definition. They did, in fact, drag themselves from bar to bar, but only because each place they went had a more depressing atmosphere than the last. Just when it seemed that evening was a lost cause, at last Vox Machina found a tavern that, but for a lack of food, was exactly the sort of place they’d been looking for to unwind after the day’s adventures.

Vax had been quiet most of the day—the dealing they’d been forced to do with the Clasp having dredged up old memories and fears, but though negotiations had been tense at some points, in the end, they’d been able to retrieve the traitor of Tal’Dorei more or less painlessly.

_Less_—Keyleth definitely would’ve said ‘less’ to that assertion, given the onslaught of glaive attacks against her for little to no perceivable reason. Still, between the various healing magics since applied and the giddy euphoria from the alcohol now flooding her system, the half-elf druid was feeling _great_.

Percy watched his red-haired friend carefully. She was a notorious featherweight and prone to extreme emotional swings when intoxicated that required a deft hand to guide. Still she currently seemed in good spirits, thus freeing him—for the moment at least—to enjoy both the evening and the company.

Vex’ahlia was certainly enjoying herself, now that they’d found a halfway decent bar, but she did find herself now and again looking carefully at the human beside her. Percy _seemed_ nearly like his old self once more, but the thing he’d nearly become in Whitestone couldn’t be forgotten, and even now, the question lingered—just how in control _was_ Percival? And, if he slipped again, would any of them be able to bring him back to the light?

For some who’d (at least, partially) traumatized and then killed a man not a few hours before, Pike was in an extremely chipper mood. She could hardly help it, though: she was here, with her friends, in actual, physical person! Astral form had been useful, certainly—far better than not being involved or present at all—and she was grateful that she could be there for the others for at least part of the struggle against the Briarwoods, but it paled in comparison to rubbing shoulders and drinking deep with her best buds.

Grog was also delighted, though, in all fairness, that wasn’t all that difficult or surprising: they’d returned home triumphant, reunited with Pike, and had their names cleared; the fight had been brief but exciting, in its own way, and was at least followed by a wondrously bloody death; and now, there was ale. The barbarian drank deeply and without care, wedged as best he could at a table not meant for any humanoids that varied too far from ‘average’ size.

Fortunately, Scanlan was used to requiring some sort of makeshift boost when he frequented less-prepared establishments. It was still an embarrassing annoyance, to be sure, but hardly one to spoil the night. No, what kept sticking in his mind was the (accidentally intentional) loss of his entire purse, and the young gnome who claimed it—and who he could not now get out of his head. He would definitely have to ask Dranzel about her—and soon—but for now, the night, while no longer young, was one for carefree celebration, not pensive or pining musings.

Thus it was that Shaun Gilmore found them: his friends returned safe and in a partying mood. They waved him over, calling loudly and drunkenly for him to join them, and how could he refuse, even if something in the uncharacteristically somber and torn look the ever-enchanting Vax’ildan gave him caused him a moment of worry? Still, the shop owner happily entered the celebratory atmosphere, and, in a display of extravagance that only Vox Machina could draw form the normally-canny businessman, when they asked him about food, Gilmore could not help himself: heroes they were, a Heroes’ Feast they would have.

Thus, the evening wore on, the eight of them there each delving to different depths in conversation (and their cups). Meanwhile, far away—unbeknownst to the happy people—four pairs of colored wings began to carve their way through the pre-dawn darkness.

The Chroma Conclave was coming.


	6. LIGHTS: CHAMPIONS OF THE EVERLIGHT AND THE DAWNFATHER

When Pike first came to the realm of Seranrae, it was a sort of homecoming, for though she’d never been there before, every fiber of her being knew she was welcomed—that she belonged.

When Vex first came to the realm of Pelor, she was not an intruder, but she certainly was a stranger. But as the journey through the seemingly boundless orchard continued, the urgency of their mission grew mingled, for her, with a new feeling—awe.

…

When Pike first stood before Seranrae, she was nearly overcome with wonder and joy and love—here was the goddess she’d devoted herself to, prayed to for years, sensed the barest glimpses of in visions, and sometimes even questioned, standing before her, arm open both figuratively and literally.

When Vex first stood before Pelor, she bowed immediately. This was the god she’d prayed to so irreverently to beneath the Sun Tree, and still received the vision from, somehow? This was the one who’d defended the valley she now called home, who’d planted the seed of tree around which the city she’d bound herself inextricably to, had grown? For the first time in her life, Vex’ahlia wanted to be closer to a god.

…

When Pike first felt the fires of Seranrae wash over her, she wasn’t afraid. It didn’t burn anything away, it filled her in and overflowed out of her, forming wings that were no longer hints or suggestions or silhouettes, but actually there, ready to lift her skyward.

When Vex first plunged into the fires of Pelor, she wasn’t afraid. She hadn’t had time to be afraid, until the strange, painless burning seemed to strip every bit of ‘her’ away. She was then afraid, for two heartbeats—if she still had a heart to beat. Then came the euphoric rush and surge of power: phoenix-like rebirth.

…

When the two of them first came to that plane, they were adventurers, warriors, maybe even heroes. After they passed through those fires, they emerged as chosen of the gods: Pike Trickfoot, Champion of Seranrae the Ever-Light, and Vex’ahlia (de Rolo), Champion of Pelor the Dawn-Father.

_Long may they shine in this dark world._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, yeah. I tend not to take all of the prompts...literally, per se. That was part of the fun of CRInktober for me, this year: putting my own twist on the prompts, and seeing where others took them, what one word made so many different people think of.


	7. FAVORITE SPELL: (VEX’AHLIA’S) SPEAK WITH ANIMALS

Vex’s hands were running through his fur, finding all his favorite spots, petting and scratching with her usual gentleness. And, as usually happened, he began to speak to him. “Trinket, darling, you know I love you, right?”

She wouldn’t understand his words, but he’d respond anyway: he knew she understood what he meant. “Of course I do.”

Abruptly, the petting stopped as Vex covered her mouth with a little gasp. Trinket look to her, instantly alert. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing—nothing’s wrong,” she choked out, grabbing the sides of his face and pressing their foreheads together. “Absolutely _nothing_.”

But she was crying, and he pointed out as much—he could feel it in his fur.

“I can hear you,” she sobbed out at last, even as he licked at her tears. “I can _understand_ you.”

Oh. That made sense, he supposed. He would be overwhelmed, too, if he could suddenly understand Vex after an entire lifetime of only being able to work out her meaning based on tone. What should he say to her next? Well, there was really only one thing to say, even if it was something that they both already knew:

“I love you, too, Vex.”

* * *

“We’re in for a big fight tomorrow, buddy. Thordak.”

“I know, Vex. And I won’t let him hurt you—I will fight him for you!”

She threw her arms around his neck and hugged him tight, even though her arms didn’t quite go all the way around. It was still strange to him, sometimes, how much bigger than her he’d grown, given how little he’d felt when they first met.

“Not for—_together_, buddy. But I don’t like seeing you hurt. You could stay—”

“No.” It wasn’t that he hated the necklace, per se—he just hated the thought of her walking into danger without him. “I can fight. I _will_ fight.”

“I love you, buddy.”

“I love you, too, Vex.”

After a bit, she went to clean up, undress, and do the other dozen silly things humanoids did before sleeping, and she seemed to be feeling better. In fact, by the time the knock at the door came, you couldn’t tell she’d been crying into his fur mere moments ago.

“Percy? Are you here for our ‘later’ talk?”

* * *

Vex had cast that spell again—the one that let her hear him. She still did it from time to time, ‘just because’, but this seemed different—his Vex was nervous.

“Buddy?”

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing! Nothing at all.” She sounded certain, but her voice was higher-pitched than normal. He waited, frowning, for her to continue. “Percy and I—that is, we—”

It was rare to see Vex at a loss for words, and Trinket had no idea what to say. So, he didn’t.

“Do you know what marriage is, Trinket?”

“Sort of.” He’d been raised among humanoids, after all, but he was admittedly a little fuzzy on the subject.

Vex rocked back on her heels. “Well, I’m getting married. To Percy. Tomorrow.”

He looked at her for a long, long time. He liked Percy—the funny human was good to Vex and good _for_ her. But still, he had to be sure: “This makes you happy.”

“Yes.” This came with no hesitation.

“Good.” Then: “I love you, Vex.”

“I love you, too, Buddy. I always will.”

* * *

“Any sing of him, Trinket?”

“No.”

Vex rested her hand on his shoulder absently. “He’ll be back. Vax said he’ll be back, so he’ll be back.”

“Okay.”

“He’ll be back, then we’ll have a feast and a rest, then go back and fight Vecna.”

Trinket snorted angrily at the name of their current enemy, but Vex just kept talking. He didn’t mind: she needed this, right now.

“And we’ll be fine, because we have the trammels, and the book, and a plan—sort of—so, we’ll win. We’ll win and we won’t let the Raven Queen take Vax, no matter what either of them say. So, everything will work out and we’ll all be happy.”

“Okay.” It seemed straightforward enough, when she put it that way. He didn’t understand why she was worried, so he offered the only comfort he could:

“I love you, Vex.”

“I love you, too, Trinket.”

* * *

This time, she didn’t cast the spell at first; this time, she just clung to him and cried while Percy hovered some distance away, at the edge of the wooded clearing.

Moaning low at her distress, he nudged the sobbing half-elf with his nose, but she didn’t answer, only held tighter. Trinket looked past her to Percy, tried to make the human understand his question as he moaned again.

“Vax—” Percy began, then glanced at Vex, swallowed hard and looked away, falling silent.

For once, Trinket wished he didn’t understand people quite so well, and his own grief for the loss of his ‘uncle’ was voiced in bass whimpers and huffs as he pressed closer to Vex’ahlia.

Percy eventually came near and joined them, putting his arms around his wife as she cried herself out. After what felt like—and may well have been—hours Trinket nudged Vex’s hands with his nose, not stopping until she cast the spell.

She might not want to talk, but he needed her to hear:

“We love you, Vex.”

* * *

“Trinket, darling, be _gentle_: she’s very little.”

He shuffled his paws excitedly, then forced himself to stand extremely still as Vex approached, tiny, squirming bundle in her arms. Percy followed not far behind, still looking dazed and a little frazzled, but beaming nonetheless.

At last, Vex shifted, allowing him to peer down into the face of the tiny quarter-elf in her arms, and Trinket felt an immediate surge of protectiveness and love for this little girl, who was so much like his Vex, but so different and so new!

He was more aware than ever of just how large he was, and how easily he could break and destroy things, and he started to pull back, afraid his mere proximity could somehow hurt the baby.

Before he could, two tiny hands shot out, reaching for his muzzle, and the little girl cooed and giggled as she reached for the startled, enamored bear.

“I love her.”

He must have missed Vex casting the spell, or maybe, after all this time, she just knew.

“And it seems she loves you already, too.”

* * *

Vex was nothing more than a shadow in front of him, but then, his eyes had been fading for years; he could still feel her hands in his fur, though, and still hear her. It was enough.

“How are you feeling, Trinket?”

“…Tired.”

A slight sob. He wished he could do something to make her not cry—he never liked it when his Vex was sad. But now, that would be up to Percy and their children.

“Do you want to sleep, buddy?”

“…I don’t know.” He did, but he didn’t want to leave her all alone.

“You have to give him permission, Vex; he loves you too much,” someone urged quietly from the shadows—it smelled and sounded like Keyleth, older and much more grounded than she had once been—how many years ago, now?

“I can’t.” vex sounded so small—he tried to press closer to her, but age-weakened limbs refused to respond.

“Yes, you can,” Percy all but whispered. That’s right: she wouldn’t be alone—she had Percy, her children, her friends. They’d be there for her, when he couldn’t.

Another sob now, and she was leaning against him. “If you need to sleep—” Her voice broke, but then she rallied. “—then it’s okay. You can rest, now.”

“Okay.”

They were all there now, hugging or stroking him—even Keyleth and Pike, who’d been hovering in the background.

“I love you so much, Trinket. You know that—right?”

“Yes.” He’d always known. It was the first thing he’d ever known.

But sometimes, it needed to be said, needed to be heard, and, at heart, Trinket had always been a simple bear: he didn’t mind repetition.

“I love you, Vex’ahlia.”

And really—what more was there to say?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since I don't have a spell I particularly count as 'favorite' (either to see cast or to cast myself, as I don't have many chances to play at the moment), I chose to use the prompt to explore what I presumed a character's favorite spell was, even if it's not the one they cast most in-game.
> 
> (I didn't realize until after writing this that Trinket would actually live as long as Vex does, but decided to leave in the last scene anyway because I like how it turned out and ties everything together.)


	8. FRIENDS: AT THE START

_Where does a friendship begin?_

Is it a literal, geographic place that you both are from or both come to (perhaps a chance meeting in a port city just outside a massive empire)?

Is it a state of mutual need requiring collaboration (say, for instance, breaking out of jail together, then discovering it is easier to survive as two beggars/con artists rather than as one)?

_When does a friendship begin?_

Is it when paths cross for a mission (if working in a brewer’s warehouse for a day, then almost being killed by a giant snake counts as a mission)?

Is it when you are taken from your family and placed under house arrest with a group of near-total strangers (though, admittedly, more time is spent out and about than patiently waiting in the inn)?

_How does a friendship begin?_

Does it happen by you finding and killing your first monster together? By you beginning to travel together? By you saving a small town together, or by your group actually coming to have a name? By when you arriving in the big city together?

Maybe not—even then, there is too much mistrust, too much sneaking, too many lies and sharp words, and you have been alone for too long to even think of calling these assholes your ‘friends’.

And yet…you are an asshole, too. And despite the anger, despite the threats, the arguments, the dangers and all, you still cannot find it in yourself to walk away, however much you claim to want to.

_Why does a friendship begin?_

No one can say.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, when planning out CRInktober, I set aside 10 out of 31 prompts for Campaign 2, even before I'd started watching it, since i finished Campaign 1 about a week before CRInktober began. Some of them I'd heard enough to know/think it might work, others I just assumed there would be something when I got there. So it got interesting writing a lot of those ten (like this one) with less than a dozen episodes under my belt to work off of.
> 
> Hopefully, I'll be caught up by next year!


	9. FAVORITE ARC: BRIARWOODS

When Percy first—finally—told them about the Briarwoods, forcing the painful history out in faltering sentences and fumbling bursts, Vax needed no further convincing. He asked his question—did Percy consider them evil—as a sort of formality or confirmation, but the rogue had already reached his own conclusion. To see the pain and fear they’d inflicted on one of his closest friends haunt the human still… However Percival wanted to play this, Vax’ildan would have his back.

* * *

In hindsight, most of what went wrong at the palace that night started with his mistake: Vax was honest enough to admit that. He hadn’t been thinking of or trying to assassinate the Briarwoods—that call hadn’t yet been made, and it wouldn’t be his place to do so, anyway. They were still, at that point, trying to discover what was going on, what the hellish couple was truly angling for, and he felt he was the one best suited to get close enough to find out.

He nearly paid for that misjudgment with his life.

Vax was surprised and disoriented when he came to in the courtyard, but at least had the wherewithal to realize he was surrounded—still in deadly danger.

** _“SILAS!”_ **

Lord Briarwood turned towards the source of the shout, fangs gleaming. “So, the pup lives—”

Then came the familiar blast, the spray of blood, and the roar of mingled surprise and rage that as so _satisfying_ to hear.

Still prone, still in pain, Vax nevertheless felt a surge of relief at the certain knowledge that his friends were nearby, even as he coughed up a little blood. “Hey…Percy…”

* * *

It wasn’t until after that battle that the doubts began to creep in: the brutal and merciless maiming of the terrified carriage driver (a mere boy, really) that revealed a cold and dark single-mindedness in the tinkerer that Vax and the others hadn’t seen the full extent of before.

Still, they followed him to Whitestone, and Vax, at least, still went mostly for the sake of his friend, and only partially because it was the only way to clear their names.

But once within the crushed and cowed city, the growing doubts found more evidence to feed on. Nearly as terrifying as the cloud of smoke pouring from Percival, taking dark shape around him, was the near-dead look on Percy’s face through most of the fighting, only to be replaced by sickening delight at the pain and mutilation he inflicted, or ordered them to inflict upon his enemies.

It did not escape Vax’s notice that Vex’ahlia was in danger of being caught up in the collateral of whatever the hell was going on in Percy’s skull—and that, he would not stand for.

Thus, when the human’s response to being called ‘sweet Percival’ by the elderly Archibald was ‘not anymore,’ Vax’ildan couldn’t help the immediate thought in response that truer words had not been spoken lately.

* * *

But, of course, they still moved onwards.

The Briarwoods still needed to be stopped, and the revolution already sparked would soon falter and fall without help—possibly taking with it the last seed of hope for Whitestone. Then, of course, there was the news that Cassandra de Rolo had survived, and the thought had occurred to Vax that, if anything could pull Percy back from the brink of whatever he was staring down, saving the last of his family might just be it.

Still, he just had to pull his friend aside in the tunnel that night, had to lay out all that had raised his concerns, had to warn him about dragging Vex or the others down with him—honestly, he still had too much respect for Percival not to.

To Percy’s credit, he seemed receptive, fully admitting that Vax’s points were valid and his concerns not unfounded. Then, as if a thought had just occurred to him, he spoke in a different tone after several heartbeats of silence. “Vax?”

“Yeah?”

Percy smiled for the first time in what felt like weeks, alight with a hope that almost hurt to see. “I have a sister!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I didn't cover the whole arc in the story, but once I picked Vax as my perspective character, that conversation in the tunnel seemed the best ending place.


	10. WEAPON: FENTHRAS

It had been so long—how long had it been?

Once, it had wandered with Sondur throughout the land they protected—under tree canopy or open sky, seeking any that would cause this place harm as they traveled, free as the wind.

Then, something had changed, and Sondur had changed, and they no longer traversed together, but stayed in one place for time uncountable. It could feel the corruption about it, and knew the source to be Sondur: once its wielder, now its captor.

It had been so long—how long had it been?

It never could say. But then _they_ came—a group of adventurers not of that place, not of that plane, even. They spoke with Sondur, but they could not reach past what he had become to what he now was, any more than it could.

There was a fight, then (its first in a near-eternity) and Sondur fell. It did not grieve, for Sondur had been lost impossibly long ago, and that grief had already been spent. Now, it simply waited for the other archer to claim it, to take it from this place and free it.

It had been so long—how long had it been?

Once more, it wandered with its wielder far and wide, striking down the proud and powerful who sought to bring harm to others, planting the seeds of a new life for every one it took.

Once more, it felt the wind, then sun, the shade of a forest, the openness of a field, and so many stranger and wilder placed as it once again took its place beside a Protector, traveling as free as the air.

It had been so long—how long had it been?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly, I'm not sure why I chose Fenthras over all of the other vestiges/cool weapons in Campaign One, except that I really kind of like the thought of exploring things from perspectives we don't get in cannon, like what Sondur was like before and his downfall from the POV of his weapon.


	11. SHOPPING: HEROES MEDALIONS

“You want to go _where_?”

Percy remained calm in the face of the screeching druid. “The City of Brass on the fire plane—Senokir’s shop, specifically,” he repeated.

Keyleth fumbled in search of a response, finding only one: “_Why?_”

“It’s supposed to be a surprise,” Percy tried to defer, not meeting his friend’s eyes. Keyleth refused to budge, crossing her arms.

“No explanation—here and now, and in full—no plane shift.”

The contest of wills was brief and decidedly one-sided: Percival soon caving, opening a small pouch to reveal several colors of dragon scales and describing his plan. Keyleth was clearly still uncomfortable with his choice of craftsman and venue, but she agreed at last.

* * *

Keyleth took special care with the spell, taking her time and focusing her will on specifically arriving right on the doorstep of the Flame Garden—the less time spent on those streets, the better.

With a confidence that she normally envied but today (and under the current circumstances) felt was out of place, Percy strode into the jeweler’s shop…through the front, for a change.

The strange genasi looked up, and if he were surprised to see them again, his expression did not betray it. “Percival. Keyleth.”

“Hi, Senokir,” Keyleth chirped, her voice high-pitched and taut in her discomfort.

“What brings you to my shop?”

Percy took the lead at that point, to her immense relief. “Two points of business. First, I am delighted to report that we have completed your requested favor: your wife’s ashes have been buried in the Birth Heart.”

“Then you have fulfilled your debt to me.” Despite her best efforts, Keyleth could not tell _at all_ if it was relief, gratitude, or even disappointment in his tone. “What is your second point of business, Percival?”

The small pouch was produced, along with the paper upon which Percy had sketched out his design. “I believe I mentioned when we were last here that I had a commission in mind, should our group survive our confrontation with the Chroma Conclave.”

“You did indeed enquire about that.”

“Well, we did, in fact, survive—”

“How wonderful.”

“—and to celebrate our accomplishments, I would like to commission a set of dragon-scale medallions…”

* * *

Keyleth never really asked how Senokir intended to deliver the medallions upon completion; she was merely content to know that—any further misadventures notwithstanding—she would not have to make any further trips to the deeply unsettling City of Brass and the indescribably unsettling jeweler.

It was a few weeks later that the druid was able to pull her friend aside long enough to ask: “If your family has access to the master jewelers in the area, why in the name of all sanity did you risk going to Senokir’s for that?”

“I thought the importance of the pieces would be best reflected in more exotic craftsmanship. Besides, I greatly admire his work.”

It was a testament to the Voice of the Tempest’s growing self-control that she actually managed not to strangle him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, so, originally, I thought that the necklaces Percy gave everyone were the ones that would give that weird heart-beat indicator when one of them went unconscious/died, but it turns out, that was a different set of jewelry pieces, that I couldn't remember if they were commissions or made by someone in the group, so I went back to my original idea, which was coming to Senokir with the commission, and changed directions to focus on Keyleth's overall reluctance for that trip.


	12. PRIDE: SERANRAE AND (OF) PIKE

At the risk of treading too near a pun, the gnomish race was too-often overlooked—believed incapable of greatness by those fooled by a diminutive stature and generally upbeat nature.

But Seranrae had never put too much stock in such opinions, nor in that of those who said she chose her gnomish clerics simply because they were the only ones who would answer, that she was simply making do with who and what she had.

But she had seen in Willhand—and even more clearly in Pike—a resilience, faith, and, yes, light, that could barely be contained, and she _knew_, even then, that from the Trickfoot bloodline (at least, in this branch of it) would come great things indeed.

And oh, how her dear Pike proved that knowledge to be truth time and time again: refusing to be conquered by death, re-establishing not only her physical temple but her body of worship in Vasselheim, rediscovering one of the lost Vestiges of the Divergence, and, with it and her friends, defeating the dread Chroma Conclave. And, perhaps hardest of all, forgiving her family their betrayal, even as she cut them off from herself once and for all.

She had done so much already, and still Pike did not rest as yet another evil rose, one so strong that it seemed to be certain death for so small a gnome to dare oppose it—and Pike resolved to face it, to fight him anyway.

So, when Seranrae heard that prayer for guidance for aid, there was no hesitation, no second guesses: she called Pike to her at once, gave her the key to reach her physical presence, and eagerly awaited the chance to tell her, to her face, how incredibly proud she was of her, Pike Trickfoot, Cleric of Seranrae, Champion of the Ever-Light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, originally this was going to be Seranrae's perspective on the entire first campaign, but as I wrote it, it turned into more of a musing on her thoughts/reasoning behind giving Pike the key to find her.


	13. Chapter 13

_Damn hicks entering last minute—don’t they understand the necessity of proper forms and procedures?_

But the seven misfits standing before him now seemed to be the type to belligerently press and shout until they got their way, and this Harvest Close Festival had already been headache enough to prepare, given the Crick attack and the murder of the High Richter only a week before.

“Fine. Name of group?”

There was a moment of muttering and mumbling over each other, then a handful of voices disjointly overlapped: “Mighty Nein.”

_Nine? Great. A group of bumbling amateurs who don’t even know how to count._ “And where are you from?”

The group paused, all looking at each other. How the hell were they supposed to answer that question?

Caleb and Beau had both admitted to being ‘Empire kids,’ but aside from that and the two tidbits the monk had let slip (that she was from a small town and had spent time here in Zadash previously), none of the others knew anything more about either human’s home town.

Jester and Fjord had both named their places of origin; though, the more the others thought about it—had Fjord said he was born in Port Damali, or was that merely where he’d crossed paths with Jester after she’d been forced to leave Nicodranas? How much did they really know about the two from the Menagerie Coast?

Really, only a little more than they knew about Nott, and what that strange goblin’s story was before meeting Caleb—where she came from—who could say?

Hell, Molly himself had no idea where he was originally from. Although, based on his insistence that anything before that grave was another person altogether, he likely would’ve simply said ‘the circus’.

And that certainly would’ve been the safest answer for Yasha, even in that moment, before the group learned of the worsening situation between Xhorhas and the Dwendalian empire, and that was if the often-silent Aasimar was inclined to answer at all—which she probably wasn’t.

How the hell were they supposed to answer that question?

“Everywhere—and nowhere.”

“…Fine. The ‘Mighty Nine’ …from ‘Everywhere’.”

Eh, close enough.


	14. DRESSES: AN INTRODUCTION

“Just a little blue tiefling in a pretty, cute dress!”

Hardly what one expects a cleric to wear: linen robes or solid plate mail spring much more readily to mind. But if one looked close enough, obscured beneath the ensemble was the armor she actually _did_ wear, as it would be foolish to do otherwise…

Hardly what one would consider practical for either traveling or fighting in, but considering what she was used to, what she had grown up around, the outfit she was wearing was actually a concession to the practical needs of life on the road, who can say how reluctant a concession or not…

And truthfully, to spend five minutes in her company, to hear her speech, witness her attitude towards life and its chaos, receive her smiles and kindness, see her blithely skip between feats of strength and spectral lollipops was to know that of _course_ that was how she would dress—who she was:

“Just a little blue tiefling in a pretty, cute dress!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Probably my shortest and weakest chapter/installment in the whole of CRInktober, and the only thing I can say about it is that I set it aside for campaign 2, having seen art of Jester and assuming that, even early on, there'd be something to work off of. I don't know if I'd even hit episode 20 by the time I was writing this, so this was all I had, just to day that I'd fulfilled that day's prompt.


	15. SELF-INSERT NPC: ANTONIA MARSHSTEAD

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Sorry for the late post, today: no excuses, I just plain forgot.)

The town was not unimpressive—indeed, was increasing in populace and prosperity at such a rate, it could probably be deemed a city in the next year or two. Still, there wasn’t any reason for Vox Machina to be there, other than that it was a stop on the way to where they were going, and a convenient place to drink and stay the night.

Still, there were a few hours left before businesses closed up for the day, and, despite protests from Grog, Vex was on the hunt for interesting finds and bargain prices.

Asking around after magical items and weapons, the group of adventurers found themselves directed to an unassuming, two-story building that didn’t really stand out too much from the local architecture, bearing a sign that declared it was ‘Marshteads’ Magicks,’ and that it was, in fact, still open for business late that afternoon.

The door opened noiselessly, no bell or chime announcing their arrival, and not a floorboard creaked as they strode in to the well-lit interior.

Sunlight streamed in from the two large, street-facing windows, revealing a neat and orderly main area which smelled faintly of lavender and cedar. The store interior, as well as the counters and display shelves, were all made of a light-colored wood that gleamed dimly with their finish and the golden afternoon light. There was an open main area; two window displays flanking the door to the street, where various pieces of (presumably enchanted) jewelry were visible; left of the entrance was a glass-and-wood display case of small weapons: daggers, hand crossbows, blots, arrows, a light weight rapier, and the like, with larger weapons such as great swords and battle axes on shelves and pegs on the wall behind; on the right side of the store was another display case, this one filled with an odd assortment of household sundries, knick-knacks, and generally useful items (there were no shelves or wall displays on this side, but half-hidden in the far corner behind the case was what appeared to be a sort of work table with various sewing tools, some yarn, and a few toys on it); finally, facing the door across the floor was a plain, uncluttered counter with no displays—evidently, where sales were finalized.

Aside from the street door, the main room had two other entrances: one open archway to the right, just beside the worktable, that revealed a set of stairs ascending to the second floor, and a closed, heavy wooden door in the wall behind the sales counter.

The store seemed empty, even of people running it, save for a handsome red fox curled up on the sales counter, half-asleep and ignoring Vox Machina, for the moment. With a gasp of delight and absolutely no hesitation, Keyleth ran up to the creature, all but putting her head on the counter beside him. “Hi!” she chirped, fixated on the furry animal as one eye slitted halfway open to regard her levelly. “I’m Keyleth! What’s your name?”

The fox stretched, sat up, scanned their group, and turned with deliberate nonchalance to face the stairs beyond the archway before screeching loudly.

Seconds later (while their ears were still ringing) pounding footsteps on the stairs heralded a new arrival: grumbling half-hearted, half-heard curses under her breath, a female dwarf rounded the corner. Her dark hair was pulled back in a simple braid, her grey eyes peered at them from behind a pair of glasses, though she seemed to only be in her young adulthood, and she was dressed simply: tunic, vest, skirt, leggings, boots.

As she approached the counter (stepping up on some sort of boost or stool that was hidden behind it), her scolding became audible: “—too much trouble to just walk up the stairs to let me know someone was here? Just had to screech like a tortured demon and scare customers? And you wonder why Henry doesn’t take you when he goes to negotiate with suppliers.”

The fox merely hopped off the counter on her side, vanishing from view briefly, then darting up the stairs. Tirade over with the disappearance of its target, the young dwarf woman focused on the party before her, scowl melting into an apologetic half-grin. “Sorry about that: familiars can get cranky during extended separations, and Fabian’s always been overly dramatic anyway. Anyhow, welcome to Marshteads’ Magicks—are you in the market for anything in particular, or just looking to browse?”

The final sentence was undoubtedly a rehearsed, often-delivered script, but to her credit, the young woman mustered (or, at least, feigned) a genuine enough tone that gave them the feel of natural dialogue.

Before Vex could answer, Keyleth broke in with something that’d been bothering her since first approaching the store: “Did you know that your sign is messed up? The apostrophe is wrong, and it’s misspelled?”

“The sign is correct,” came the immediate reply, in a tone that this was a correction she’d had to make a few too many times for her patience, but didn’t want to completely alienate potentially paying customers, “Marshstead is the family name, and since my brother and I run the store together, both plural and possessive are correct.” She then deflated somewhat, glancing away in a moment of embarrassment, perhaps? “…And the ‘K’ is just for flare.”

“Showmanship is an important facet of salesmanship,” Percy ranted, hoping to placate the woman before she took out any ill-will on the prices. “Though I must say the aesthetic is more reserved than I would've expected in such an establishment.”

The young woman glanced around, nodding. “Organized, you mean? Neat? That’s on me: I can’t think or work in a cluttered area. Hence avoiding the workshop as much as possible.”

“You don’t perform the enchantments yourself, then?” Vex asked, looking up from the bowstring and arrows she’d been examining out of professional interest.

“Oh, that’s Henry’s field,” came the quick answer. “He’s the craftsman, I handle the storefront for him. Is there anything in particular I can help you with or help you find? Any questions?”

Pike looked up from the display case she’d been staring into. “Uh, Miss—?”

“Sorry: Antonia. And you?”

“Pike Trickfoot. Antonia, why is there a frying pan in the case with the weapons?”

There came a genuine, if half-embarrassed chuckle in response to that question. “That started as… Well, not a joke, really. When we were younger, someone made an insulting comment about Henry’s skill with magic and enchantments, and I told them he was could make even a cast-iron skillet into a powerful magical weapon. Turns out he overheard that conversation, and remembered it. So, he made this: it’s a magical bludgeoning weapon not dissimilar to a great club or the like. Additionally, it deals an extra kick of fire damage upon a successful hit. It is a two-handed weapon and requires attunement, but once it is attuned, anyone else who tried to pick it up finds it too warm to the touch to handle—so, generally thief-proof. Unless you use an oven mitt or the like, I suppose.”

“Anything else it can do?” Vax asked, half-joking. Antonia had rattled off the weapon’s attributes with the ease of someone who knew them by heart, but also with genuine pride at her brother’s accomplishment—unusual as it was.

“Well, any food prepared in it does cook twice as quickly—but that can be a good or bad thing, depending on how close an eye you keep on your dinner.”

Vex blinked, then shook her head—the thing was almost too ridiculous _not_ to get, to say nothing of the mental image of a monster’s expression roughly half a second before it got hit by a frying pan. “How much for it?” she offered, haggling mode already engaged.

Antonia didn’t hesitate. “750 gold.”

“For a _frying pan!?_” The half-elf fired back, ignoring whoever it was behind her that groaned (probably Grog).

“For a _cast iron_ pan with _two_ magical enchantments upon it—enchantments that had to be uniquely crafted in order to adhere to a non-traditional weapon.”

Vex raised an eyebrow at the dwarf. “It’s essentially an enchanted household object,” she pointed out, then watched as the other woman’s expression darkened. _Oops_.

Nearly all trace of the ‘saleswoman’ persona had vanished. “Degrading my brother’s time, effort, creativity, and craftsmanship will not incentivize me to lower the price.” Arms folded, her glare dared the ranger to make the next move.

“Fair point,” Vex had to grant, quickly changing tactics before she drove the price _up_. “How much could you come down if we told anyone that asked about this unique item all about this shop and the master craftsman who made it? And your brother could tell people that not only did he _make_ a frying pan a weapon, he also sold it to none other than Vox Machina!”

Silence stretched on for a moment or two.

“725.”

“675 at the most,” Vex shot back.

Antonia raised one eyebrow, arms still folded. “You can hardly expect to persuade me to cheat my own brother out of the rightful reward for his work.”

They were a few moments away from meeting at 700, Vex could tell—they simply had to finish out the final few steps of their dance. Despite the growing impatience from the group at her back (at least, from some of them), Vex’ahlia did exactly that. The gold changed hands (700) and the enchanted cooking pan was handed over.

A discussion soon arose over which of them could and should wield it, but Vex ignored that part—she was hardly a candidate for what was very obviously a strength-based melee weapon—and scanned the shop again. This time, a glimpse of something small and brown on the corner worktable caught her eye.

“Is that an owl bear toy?”

Antonia followed her gaze, her entire demeanor shifting towards something that could almost be described as awkward hesitancy. “I-uh- have been teaching myself crochet on days when the store is slow. It’s relaxing, honestly. But, yes, I have been working on some small toys and the like…”

“May I see it?” Vex asked, feeling Vax move up behind her as he overheard the conversation.

Antonia blinked, obviously caught off-guard. “Uh, sure…” she muttered at last, crossing to the table and retrieving the item in question before returning.

It was small—not quite as big as Vex’s fist—and was certainly a stylized, simplified representation that was cuter than it was accurate. The craftsmanship was hardly masterful, either: while Antonia was obviously not clumsy or a rank novice, there were still a few visible imperfections. Still, there was an undeniable charm to the little doll, and with one shared look, the twins were of one mind.

“Do you sell these?” Vax asked. Upon seeing the dwarf hesitate, he continued, “If not, I understand—sometimes you just make things for yourself or have sentimental attachments.”

“I-I don’t mind selling it. I just figured no one would really want it. …I just needed something to keep busy…”

Vex beamed at the suddenly-flustered shop keep. “Well, we know one little girl in particular who would just _adore_ this little fellow—she’s obsessed with owl bears. How much for the little cutie?”

For the first time since the entered the little shop, Vox Machina saw absolute uncertainty cross Antonia’s face as she fumbled for a fair price.

“Uh… three copper?”

This time, it was Vax’s turn to protest. “For a one-of-a-kind, hand-crafted piece?”

“It-it’s not magical, and it’s just yarn and some stuffing,” Antonia pointed out weakly, all her earlier confidence gone.

Vax shook his head. “But the time this would’ve taken to make—one silver at least,” he replied, ignoring the glare Vex was directing at him for this oddly-reversed negotiation.

The ranger turned to the dwarf, wondering if this was an intentional technique to drive up the price, but no—the embarrassment, hesitance and uncertainty were genuine, she could see. Clearly, Antonia was far more comfortable negotiating on her brother’s behalf than her own, and something about knowing that made Vex feel momentarily fond of the other girl—or at least, like she could understand her.

And, in the grand scheme of things, considering their current financial status, what was a silver piece? Velora would be happy with the gift, and perhaps a fledgling craftswoman would get a confidence boost.

“I-I guess…”

* * *

The town was hardly important, and the Marshstead siblings would likely never gain fame of any import, much less cross Vox Machina’s path again, but at least both parties felt at their parting as though a fair bargain had been reached without coming to the point of either hating or permanently angering the other.

And, really, what more can you ask from a retail transaction?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For this one, I took to heart that the prompt specified 'npc', and since I currently (reluctantly) work retail, I decided to go the 'shopkeeper' route, but make things a little more pleasant that my current reality (working with my brother, and magic items versus whatever the heck we have at a thrift store). Sorry if it turned a little indulgent/commentary by the ending-I also happened to write this while at work, so thoughts on retail were pretty close to the surface...  
(And no, I have very little grasp on what fair pricing in D&D worlds would be.)


	16. ROMANCE: ZAHRA/KASHAW

They were an odd pair, to be sure.

Two of the newest members of the Slayer’s Take—it hardly seemed wise to pair the human cleric and the tiefling warlock up for missions, but the chemistry that quickly developed between the strange pair of outsiders made them one of the strongest teams the guild had to offer.

They were an odd pair, to be sure.

Kash spent most of his time near the barracks, drilling the troops as he trained them; while Zahra divided her hours between magical research and establishing the small temple to the Raven Queen at Vex’s behest. And yet, as both of them, in their own way, prepared Whitestone for the coming war, they found time for one another, and by the time they chose to buy time for their friends, they knew exactly who they were to the person at their side.

They were an odd pair, to be sure.

And they made an odd sight: the glowering, grumbling human, and the now-pregnant, near-frantic tiefling both riding wyverns, tearing to the top of the undead titan, screaming curses at the would-be god who _dared_ to threaten their world, their future, their city—and their friends. To lose this fight was to lose a world in which they wanted to raise their child, so they flew boldly into the undead face of certain death.

They were an odd pair, to be sure.

If it weren’t for Kash’s Death Ward, they’d both have perished from the fall, as their mounts had, but they had little enough time to celebrate their unexpected survival before the race was on to bring a little girl back to life. And then—

—then it was all over, and they were suddenly faced with having their whole lives ahead of them, with a new life on the way. In that light, the future seemed a little frightening, but, as Zahra’s tail slipped around Kash’s waist, they both found that they weren’t so frightened after all.

…

But they were an odd pair, to be sure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Given the number of fics that'd at least partially dwelt on the VM couples that i'd already done for CRInktober, or were planning to do before the end, I decided that I wanted at least one to focus on the awesome guest characters, so I chose to take the romance prompt in this direction. Hopefully, you enjoyed it!


	17. CROSSOVER: POKEMON

It was that time of year again, and it felt like the whole of the Tal’Dorei Region was abuzz with excitement as the opening rounds of Tal’Dorei Pokemon League Championship drew near.

There were quite a few challengers turning heads that year—some, like the rival ghost trainers Kvarn and Vecna, had trained solo; others, like the dragon-type specialists of the Chroma Conclave had formed loose alliances to reach this point.

But, far and away, the biggest talking point of the tournament was the band of eight trainers who’d taken up the name Vox Machina (though some people who’d encountered them early in their journey still spoke of the S.H.I.T.s). Like many, they’d found the journey to this point easier in the company and with the assistance of others, but after all their adventures, challenges, obstacles, and unexpected encounters with more than one evil team, their bonds were stronger than most, more of a unified, cohesive single unit than any other group that had competed in previous years.

The talk around and about them (positive and negative) was partially due to their unusually strong inner-group loyalty, partially their extremely diverse team composition, mainly their more-than-usually dangerous/adventurous path (in and out of region) to that point , and (perhaps because of that) the fact that every one of them had a Legendary Pokemon anchoring their team, in addition to the Pokemon on their team capable of Mega-Evolution (a pre-requisite for tournament entry, at this point).

There’d been some grumbling about how fair that was, requiring League President Uriel Tal’Dorei to step in and make a formal ruling/statement: They had begun their journey at an appropriate point and time, along with everyone else, and if circumstances beyond their control had made their path here more roundabout and hazardous than most, it merely proved their skill, determination, and luck to have made it through. Yes, they had briefly and occasionally traveled to other regions, but only out of sheer necessity, and the bulk of their training had undeniably been done in the Tal’Dorei region. And finally, as a Legendary Pokemon will not condescend to fight for just _any_ trainer, their remarkable achievement (which, he reminded people, was not _entirely_ without precedent) stood as further testament to their ability and right to compete.

(The fact that Uriel himself has been saved from the evil organization Team Treachery by Vox Machina was well-known, and some detractors claimed he was therefore biased. Still, his points stood as sound as his ruling was both final and official.)

Officially entered in the tournament, then, Vox Machina was an undeniably odd assortment of Trainers and Pokemon:

For instance, there was their newest member, Taryon, who technically hailed from the Wildemount Region, but who’d come to train in Tal’Dorei after an argument with his family, soon falling in with the already-formed Vox Machina. He’d started out with only Rich, his Furfrou, though admittedly his Rotom, Artificer, had been with him nearly as long. No one was really sure how Tary of all people had acquired a Metagross (or even a Beldum), to say nothing of a Megastone for it so early in his journey, but Doty was undeniably devoted to its trainer. After joining Vox Machina, Taryon had added Sanctuary, his Mr. Mime, and Slayer’s Cake the Slurpuff. Finally, after an unexpected trip home to Wildemount, and even more surprising confrontation with his father, Tary had finished out his team with the legendary Keldeo, who he affectionately referred to as the Darrington Brigade, for some reason that made sense only to him.

Or consider Scanlan, the ladies’ man of the group: his Exploud, Bard, was already growing in fame before Kaylie, his Mawile, found him (as frightening as the little Steel/Fairy was, she was downright _deadly_ when Mega-Evolved). He’d apparently split off on his own for a while, returning to rejoin the group with two new members on his team: Meatman the Zoruark, and Prodigal the Leipard. If Scanlan rarely spoke of how he came to train his Hatterene, Ioun, he was even more reticent and uncharacteristically somber if questioned about his Jirachi, simply called Wish.

Pike, Scanlan’s long-pursued, long-suffering girlfriend had begun her journey with an odd-couple pair of partners: Trickfoot, her Gengar, and cleric, her Granbull. Her Boltund, Guiding Bolt, had an odd habit of circling his opponents to attack their rears, but it was her Mimikyu, Astral Form, that was considered the powerhouse of the four. Still, most attention on her was understandably split between either Monstah, her Mega-evolving Tyranitar, or the Legendary Ho-oh she called Seranrae—though underestimating her or any on her team was a serious mistake.

Pike’s childhood friend, Grog, had an interesting blend on his team: his first partner the aptly-named Machamp, Barbarian, was usually the first in any battle, supported by the exceptionally-dense Slowbro affectionately (and ironically) called Intelligence. Waddling about and finding, storing, then producing the oddest assortment of items was Holding, the Delibird. It was half-joking quipped that no one could tell if it was grog training Craven Kas, the Aegislash, or the other way around, but the synergy he had with his Gallade, Fighter, was blatantly obvious even before Mega-Evolution. And anchoring it all was Titanstone, the Legendary Regirock.

Vax’ildan and Grog may have often teased each other, but Vax’s seemingly-average team was no joke in battle: Assassin, his Houndoom, was both his first partner and the one capable of Mega-Evolving, but Vax poured just as much care and love into training his whole team, even his trusty, if often-overlooked Arbok, Simon. Boots, the hasty Luxray was a speed demon, to be sure, and his Corviknight, Paladin was a much-needed defensive boost for the whole team. His Florges, Snowdrop, seemed almost out-of-place on his team, but some story behind her presence never failed to earn a small, sad smile from her trainer, though he never spoke of it. And watching over them all was the ghostly Legendary, Lunala, who Vax called the Raven Queen in the most reverent of voices.

Often seen hand-in-hand with Vax was Keyleth, who hailed from one of the Ashari Tribes of elemental-focused trainers. Zephrah, her first partner, was an Altaria capable of Mega-Evolution, and had been, along with her Sawsbuck, Circlet (a gift from her mother), with her along every step of her journey to learn of the other elements though new Pokemon on her team: Terrah the Golurk, Pyrah the Pyroar, and Vesrah, the Gyrados. After a return to her starting point, Keyleth was surprise to encounter, much less near the loyalty of the Legendary Tapu Bulu who she came to call Mantle after responsibilities she’d been given in her home village.

Vex’ahlia, twin sister to Vax’ildan, began her journey far more comfortable in the woods and on the routes than in the villages and towns, and there had bonded deeply with her first two partners: Ranger, her Decidueye, and Trinket the Ursaring. She was just as fond of her later additions: Haggle, the Persian, and Rogue, the (Mega-Evolving) Absol. And if her partnering with the Honchkrow, Witchbroom, was under somewhat-dubious circumstances, one could still not deny the trainer’s care. Perhaps even stranger was her coming to have on her team the Legendary Solgaleo, called Pelor by the girl, but it seemed undeniably fitting that the twins have counterpoint legendaries anchoring their respective teams.

Never too far from Vex was Percival—hardly the first (and certainly not the last, if rumors around his sister Cassandra were anything close to true) of the well-known, if somewhat strange de Rolo family to enter the tournament. Of course, he had the signature Pokemon of his family: Glaceon, his named Whitestone. There were some that questioned the inclusion of his second Pokemon, but the general consensus was that there must be some sort of sentimental attachment to an early—perhaps first—capture that led him to keep on his final team Spectacles, the Watchog. Gunslinger, his Mega-Evolving Blastoise was a powerful force, but not nearly as feared as Contract, his Spiritomb. There was something almost laughable about the Klingklang, Clocks, but all laughter died in the face of the Legendary Yveltal, his dark Orthax.

It was generally considered that the one advantage any opponent of theirs would have would be that each of the eight would have to fight their way through the tournament alone, rather than the group that they’d grown accustomed to working as along their journey. Even then, many didn’t fell that any challenger outside of Vox Machina had any shade of a chance at victory. Except…

…Except, perhaps, for the mysterious, last-minute entry…

The only name he gave was ‘Matt,’ and though no one knew where he’d come from or where he’d trained, his team was as stacked as any of theirs: His (Mega) Gardevoir, Allura, led the powerful line-up, backed by Kima, the Hitmonchan, and the Alakazam, Gilmore. His Voltorb, Victor, promised to be a Wildcard, and was, in its own way, just as terrifying as the final two members: Briarwoods, the Malamar, and his own Legendary, the Eternatus he called Raishan.

No, there was absolutely no predicting how this year’s tournament would go, but one:

It would be a story told through the years to come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this was a fun one to write! (i have way too much time coming up with hypothetical teams.) However, since the original post was written in advance of Sword and Shield's release, there was only one Galar representative int he original line-up (Vax's Corviknight, one look in the trailers was enough to know), so i chose to go back in and do some swap-ups to put more Galar in. Here are the originals that got swapped out:
> 
> Taryon: Slayer's Cake (Originally Slurpuff, now Alcremie)  
Scanlan: Ioun (originally Espeon, now Hatterene)  
Pike: Guiding Bolt (originally Zebstrika, now Boltund)  
[I wanted to swap Rogue, Vex's Absol, for a Thievul, but then she would've lost her Mega)]  
Matt: Raishan (originally Zygarde; now Eternatus)


	18. STARS: SILENCE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The quotes in Italics are from the play Silent Sky by Lauren Gunderson.

_“Mass and energy are just different forms of the same thing. They shift back and forth forever. So nothing’s gone. It just shifts.”_

Dark. Dirt. Can’tSeeCan’tMoveCan’tBreathe. Choking—smothered—blind. Clawing away from gravity, fingers tearing apart, scrambling for a single breath of air. Choking—spitting—free. Dark. Cold. Up—go up. Up is out, up is **free**. Look up. Dark—and not dark. A thousand little lights clawing their own way out of the blackness.

_“Astronomy […] the science of light on high. Of all that is far-off and lonely and stuck in the deepest dark of space. Dark but for billions and billions of…Exceptions. And I insist on the exceptional.”_

Empty. Empty. EmptyEmptyEmpty. …Empty. Cir…cus. Others. Voices—faces. Others. Lights—colors—noises—energy—excitement. Life. Home?

_“Because I’ve heard that seeing the stars from the sea is not to be missed. And I don’t want to miss anything else.”_

Look around. Move on. Leave every town better than you found it—don’t stay. Be loud—be bold—be **you**: whoever the hell you want that to be. Tell boring and normal to fuck off. And at night, look up. Never forget to look up. And shine on.

_“I used to think that to **be truly alive** I needed answers. I needed to **know**. But all this does not in fact **need** to be known, does it? **We** do. (**We **do.) Because the real point…is seeing something bigger. And knowing we’re a small part of it, if we’re lucky. In the end, that is a life well-lived.”_

New faces—new people. Friends? Assholes, actually. You fit right in, and keep on standing out. Traveling again, traveling still—adventures and experiences and **life** all the more. Past revives—it won’t stay away. Fuck that. Forget it. (Already have, once.) Move on, move out—look up. Up is out, up is free. Keep shining.

_“(All I have is time, and all I haven’t is time.) Time is…persistent. (Yes.) But light—its speed, is constant—one of the few in the universe. Just so you know. I choose to measure you in light.”_

(It’s coming.) Don’t look back. (It’s chasing you.) Don’t think about it. (It won’t give up.) Don’t let it control you—don’t become someone you haven’t chosen. You are **you**, and **you** you will remain until the end. (The end?) Soon enough—too soon. But don’t look back—look up. Eyes never closed. Never forget to look up. The stars are free, so are you. Live. **Live.**

_“Some time from now I gather myself. And sneak outside—and look up. And I know—that distance is only space and time, and for some of us…light. I am out of time. But light has never let me down. And so. I shift. […] Wonder will always get us there… those of us who insist there is so much more beyond ourselves. And I do. And there’s a reason we measure it all in light.”_

… Live? (Live.) … Shine? (Shine.) …Is it enough? … (Look up—_Eyes never closed_.)

…

…

…

It is enough.

_“It could mean that you may not know how you matter to people right now, and you cannot know how you will matter in the future. But you are **already** connected—and you **already** matter. Because what you do outlasts you.”_

(It was enough.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Even knowing form the start that he died early, Mollymauk quickly became my favorite character of the early days of the Might Nein, and the prompt 'Stars' came up in CRInktober just abut the time I came to the episode with his 'backstory', such as it was. Even though I hand't yet gotten to the episode where he died, I wrote this [I have since slightly edited the last paragraph, although it did not need to change all that much], weaving in lines form one of my favorite plays.
> 
> I never did get to put in this exchange that I loved, but didn't quite get to fit:  
"You're getting upset."  
"LIFE is about getting appropriately upset!"


	19. DRESSED UP: THE MEATMAN

_It had been easy enough, to begin with._

Well, that wasn’t strictly true. The initial weeks of crafting and assuming he ‘Meatman’ identity were a bizarre mix of mind-numbing boredom as the wait for his targets to circle back to Ank’Harel wore on, and paralyzing terror at the thought of being caught as he plunged further and further out of his depth.

Still, despite that, Scanlan found that he more or less stumbled into the role of crime boss accidentally and with no real sense of difficulty.

_It’d even become fun._

Well, a challenge, at least—a game of wits that kept him alert, and a chance to create something alongside Kaylie, even as the two of them tenuously felt out what this new and strange dynamic between them was.

And the more he practiced, and the longer he played the part, the easier it became.

But vacations don’t last forever, and Lionel’s news brought the worlds of Scanlan and the Meatman crashing back together. Despite himself, he knew what he had to do. Knowing that still didn’t make it any easier, and the memory of a bitter parting made him terrified of a reunion without… precautions.

So, as he’d done so often in the past year, the gnome let terrified Scanlan vanish into the unshakably confident Meatman. Still, as he waited in the now-empty inn, constantly examining his now-familiar disguise, the bard knew the coming deception would be the hardest thing he’d done in the past year, and the furthest thing from fun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me being me, I couldn't help taking this prompt into a bit of a different direction and opening up the chance for some speculative introspection. Well, some days the prompt pushes you out of your wheelhouse, some days you push the prompt into it.


	20. TOUCH: FATE-TOUCHED

Fate-Touched.

Vax’ildan wasn’t even sure what that meant—not really—but he was beginning to realize now just how much of his life, and that of those around him, had been shaped by that reality.

Was that the reason Syldor made the arguably out-of-character and seemingly long-regretted choice to take the twins away to Syngorn? After all, it was the crushing loneliness they found there that drove the half-elves away and led them to take up the skills and meet the people that had let them help to save the world.

(And, of course, it had meant that neither was present to be killed in Thordak’s attack on their once-home town.)

Was that the reason he and Vex had survived so long on their own, even when she was captured by hunters or when he fell in with the Clasp? Was that even _why_ those events had happened: so that they would find Trinket and gain (at least temporary) grounds with which to deal with the Clasp in Emon?

(Was Vex touched by fate as well, or simply too close to him?)

Was that the reason so many chance encounters became friends so suddenly? Not simply the rest of Vox Machina (though they stood as the strongest examples), but even Zahra and Kash; Allura, Kima, and Gilmore; one-time, timely encounters like Shale, Gern, Sprigg, and Arkhan: time and again exactly who they needed, even when they didn’t know it at first.

(Just how many people had he affected like this—and what would’ve been their lives had they not crossed his path?)

Was that the reason they all survived so many things that should’ve killed them? Or, if not survive, was it what ensured that they returned to carry on—some, like Vex and Percy, more than once, even?

(Was the moment of his bargain in the tomb a change of direction, or what he’d been hurtling toward all along?)

Vax didn’t have the answers—only his own convictions on the matter—but that didn’t seem to matter, now, at the end. Whatever the point of it all was, it had come and passed, and he was one step from the uncrossable barrier, finally leaving behind the mantle that had so utterly shaped him, even before he knew it:

Fate-Touched.


	21. GENRE SHIFT: SUPERHERO

I have a proposition to make—Vox Machina as a superhero comic book. I mean, it just makes sense, right? After all, just look at the checklist:

1) Superpowers

Let’s review—one girl can control the elements, another can heal; one guy can manipulate minds and reality with his music, one has super strength, and one is a speedster who can FLY. You’ve got a sharpshooter (or two) with magical arsenals at their disposal, and even the token ‘non-powered’ person can make just about any gadget you could ask for.

2) Supervillains

Take your pick—megalomaniacs bent on world domination and an undeniable dramatic flair? Try Vecna (or the Chroma Conclave, if you prefer a package deal for your bad guys). You prefer someone working in the shadows? There’s a treachery demon and a beholder I could tell you about. Implacable, incomprehensible forces of nature? There’s this thing called a Kraken, see… Or maybe you just live for the more personal, revenge-driven villains? Then allow me to introduce Hotis, Ripley, Kynan, and the Briarwoods…

3) (Sometimes Secret) Base

Greyskull Keep. When they remember that they have it.

4) Mundane Side/Day Job (That’s Totally Not a Cover)

Have you tried the pastries from the Slayer’s Cake?

5) Iconic Looks (Bonus Points for Visual Evolution Here)

Check and Double check—See both Official and Fan Art.

6) Over-Eager Fanboys turned Sidekicks and/or Villains

Taryon Darrington and Kynan, my friends.

7) Cast of Memorable, Beloved Side Characters

Gilmore, Allura, Kima, Clarota, Victor, Senokir, Cassandra, Seranrae, Raven Queen, Zahra, Kashaw, Garthok, Gern, Kerrek, Shale, Tova, Lionel, Sprigg, Arkon, J’monn Sa Ord, Jarrett, Seeker Asum, Verloa, Garmelie, Craven Edge, the sword of Kas…

8) Tragic Backstory ™

Literally. All. Of. Them. Every. One.

So, anyway, these guys were _made_ for this AU. I can see it now: the Vox Machina Comic Serial Adventure—

…

Wait. There’s _already_ a comic book?

…

…Drat.

…

…Never mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little weaker of a showing, I know, mostly because I was running short on inspiration at the time of writing. However, I gave this AU a second pass, writing an actual scene/ficlet, in Chapter 3 of 2019 Critmas Ficlet Compilation, if you want read that as well.


	22. WATER: VESRAH AND BENEATH

Water.

It’s such an unassuming thing—so easy to overlook, when encountered in small quantities: a drop, a cup, a puddle, a trickle.

Other times, one can be reminded how necessary it is for life—rain in a drought, a drink to the dehydrated, cleaning a wound, bathing when filthy—loved more than feared.

Occasionally, the barest glimpse of its power or potential can be grasped: river rapids, pounding waterfalls, the seemingly boundless seas. Sometimes, even, that potentially is partially realized and can plant the seed of fear: tidal waves, a flood, a raging storm.

But not even those glimpses, those displays had prepared Vox Machina for how thoroughly inadequate and unprepared they would be once they entered the Elemental Plane of Water.

Humanoids did **_not_** belong here.

The Ashari of Vesrah had developed aids, of sorts, allowing them to breathe, to communicate, but through they could enter that world and exist there, in the barest sense, nothing could fully shield them from how fully out of their depth they would be in the depths.

The Kraken loomed as the largest and most obvious threat, but it was merely the final nail of their coffins—the living embodiment of the reality that they were out of place, not equipped, and surrounded entirely by one of the most powerful, deadly, most uncaring of natural elements in existence:

Water.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Kraken incident: the first time they (and we) began to understand that, even in tabletop games, EVERYone hates the underwater level.


	23. MUSIC: WALTZ DOWN MEMORY LANE

He was drunk—_so_ drunk.

Drunk enough to sing; drunk enough to dance, when Jester asked him to. Or, at least, to stand and follow her onto the floor, when she asked. He took her right hand in his left, placed his right hand on her waist, and then…

…Then, somehow, the wizard’s alcohol-clouded brain could not produce what he was supposed to do next.

There was a pause, then Jester took the lead, pulling Caleb along in the age-old dance. Muscle memory came to his aid, then, keeping him in step with her, but still following—though, if she did not care, neither did he.

The band must’ve noticed them, for the song transitioned seamlessly into one much more suited for a waltz—one that stirred old images, scenes, and his last few drinks blurred them with and overlaid them on top of the present, altering the tavern around them, the occasion, the gnomish couples now joining them, and then the girl’s face in front of him.

_“You always were the better dancer than me, Astrid.”_

Sickening clarity intruded as the irretractable words escaped, and though the band must have still been paying, it was no long music he heard as he focused again on Jester’s wide-eyed face.

He turned to flee into the clamorous chaos beyond the tavern, but she would not let him—reminding him of the promise he’d asked her to make (oh, why had he asked her to make it?) before the drinking contest began.

She stopped him, led him upstairs to his room, and helped him to bed—all without any of the teasing or flirting he’d come to expect in the last few weeks. Caleb _knew_ that his slip had wounded this dear, sweet girl deeply, but though he tried, he could not assemble the words of a sincere and heartfelt apology before he lost his tenuous grip on consciousness.

_Gods, he was so drunk—_

Was that why he could still hear the waltz music?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a case of having seen just the right episode the night before taking on the prompt, so, naturally, I had to take it here.


	24. PETS: SOMETHING FAMILIAR

‘Quiet’ and ‘peaceful’ are not words too often used of the Feywild, but as the Bear Spirit was undeniably the most dangerous thing in that corner of the plane, it was generally left well enough alone. But though it might not call any of its neighbors ‘friends’, per se, it did at least have a passing familiarity with many of the smaller, wilder fey that lived or passed near its home.

Thus, one day, it was able to watch (with mild curiosity and faint disgust) and arcane intrusion into their plane seize one of these spirits, binding it and pulling to the material plane to be some wizard’s new familiar. Still, it did not overly concern itself, until the next time it saw the spirit again, its outline now vaguely more feline.

“Released, Dismissed, or Killed?” the Bear Sprit asked, by way of conversation.

The spirit gave it a slow blink—already slipping so easily into the feline mannerisms. “Temporarily dismissed. He’ll call me back when things are safer, doubtless.”

The Bear Spirit gave a some-what sympathetic rumble, but the smaller fey did not seem all that perturbed by its situation, even when it was pulled back to the material plane moments later.

They encountered each other several times after that.

Each time, the familiar’s appearance grew more and more solid, more and more unmistakably that of a common cat—clearly the preferred form both of itself and its wizard.

The reason was the same, yet different every time—either temporary dismissal or the momentary inconvenience of another ‘death’ on the material plane—and each time, the Bear Spirit waited for the familiar to complain of its lot or its wizard.

But it never did; however strange the story:

…

“I think he just got arrested. I’m going to be his secret to escaping, doubtless.”

…

“Turned me into an octopus to save a goblin, harder impact than we expected.”

…

“The goblin ate me.”

…

“He really does _try_ to keep me out of combat a lot. It’s only fair—I’m useless in a fight, there.”

…

“Goblin ate me…again…”

…

“So, turns out gnolls are really good shots, even at tiny targets in the dark. Who knew?”

…

“Who _kicks_ a **_cat?!_**”

…

The Bear Spirit shook its head at the other, smaller fey, finally asking the question that had bothered it almost from the start: “Why do you not chafe and fight against it—I know you cannot break the spell, but you don’t even seem to hate the one that’s bound you. How can you stand being bound to a human?”

The Cat—did its wizard really call it ‘Frumpkin’?—put its head to one side and gave the Bear Spirit a long look. And the Bear saw then, in the other’s eyes, a look that sparked a decades-old memory of anther confrontation, another creature, another humanoid, another journey. In that look, it heard the echoes of a bear’s protective roar, and saw again the gifts bestowed upon that pair so long ago. In that look was its answer, even before the familiar spoke.

“He needs me.”

_And I care for him._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Of all the ones I wrote a few months ago, this is the one that blew up the most unexpectedly, and became my most re-blogged/liked installment on Tumblr. i hadn't expected that, but i am glad people liked it!


	25. EMBRACE: A NIGHT OF GRIEF

He wasn’t sure how that night would go—what she would want, what she needed. He held no expectations, merely resolved to follow her lead, to do or be what she asked. So, when Vex asked him to stay with her, to not make her face that night alone, Percy agreed without any hesitation. And when she asked that they camp roughly in the woods, he made no protest at all.

Percival was not a selfless man; earlier that same day he’d been so focused on his own crises and anger that it was his wife, grieving the fresh loss of her twin brother, who’d had to pull him aside and comfort _him_, when many would say that he ought to have been focused on _her_.

In a somewhat-clearer headspace, now, he could appreciate what his self-destructive anger had nearly cost her—it was entirely feasible and more likely than not that his deal would’ve failed, and he’d have been taken away without Vax’s return, leaving her utterly alone.

And that, he’d realized after finally coming to terms with his own long-buried grief, was not something that he would ever wish upon Vex’ahlia.

And so it was that he went with her now, to help her work through her own pain and loss—or at least, to start to. Percy knew—remembered—what it felt like to lose one’s entire family, entire world, in one night, though he had to grant that the twins had likely been closer than any of the de Rolo siblings had been. Hell, Vax’s loss was hitting _him_ almost as hard as losing his blood brothers had.

But all that was to say that he knew there was nothing _to_ say: no words that could take away her pain, even for one night. So, as the darkness around the two grew darker, the lonely woods around Whitestone grew colder, and his wife sobbed into Trinket’s fur, Percy did the only thing that he could: he put his arms around her, held her close, and let her cry.

_He promised to not let go._


	26. BEACH EPISODE: MIDNIGHT CUDDLES

Vox Machina were three days in to their Marquesian vacation, and all drifting back to the resort for an evening’s rest, when Vax pulled Keyleth aside.

“What—” she began to protest, but was cut off as he lay a single finger on her lips.

His lopsided smirk was just barely visible in the gathering darkness, but she could hear it in his voice. “Let’s take a walk, jut the two of us.”

He didn’t have to say another word.

* * *

There was absolutely no reason for the two half-elves to put as much effort into stealing away unnoticed as they did: the others had no cause to protest or follow, the prank war was over (for the moment, at least), and there weren’t any rules or curfews to be broken.

But it was fun to sneak, so sneak they did.

They had the beach nearly entirely to themselves at that hour, for at least as far as their dark vision allowed them to see, and at first, all they did was walk along it, arms about each other, not even talking much as the sand released the last of the day’s heat back into the air.

They walked their way to the very edge of the lapping waves, letting the water roll over their bare feet as they kept walking.

On an impulse, Vax turned and kissed Keyleth, then said with a grin as he pulled away: “Race you!”

He took off running, then, still following the water’s edge, and Keyleth took off after him a half-second later, unable to suppress an almost childish giggle as they sprinted. They were evenly enough matched at first—as Vax had left his boots in the room—but the rogue’s play for a head start _had_ worked, leaving the druid a few yards behind him.

In a flash of inspiration (and with perhaps a touch of pettiness), Keyleth used her Beast Shape ability to assume the form of Minxie mid-stride.

Vax heard the heavier splashes behind him, and braced for impact with a smile, even as he kept running.

For the second time that week, Vax’ildan found himself tackled into the sand by a massive, furry creature, though this one melted into the form of an Ashari druid even as the two tumbled over each other.

When the half-elves got their giggles under control, they didn’t stand, but rather lay still in the sand and waves, holding each other, stargazing, whispering, and merely enjoying the carefree moment together.

(Both were privately convinced that _they_ had come out of the race the winner.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Having not yet reached the Dalen's Closet One-Shot, I had no choice but to set this one during the first 'Beach Episode' of Campaign One. Eh, means i got to give Vax and Keyleth some fluff, so it all worked out!


	27. TOGETHER: WINTER’S CREST

Winter’s Crest had not been celebrated in Whitestone since the Briarwoods had seized power, but with that fiendish couple dead or destroyed, their followers killed or cowed, the city freed, and, moreover, the two surviving de Rolo’s home once more, the long-suffering city was ready to revive the festival.

Means were too poor, little over a week after the revolution, for all the balls and pomp and gaiety the isolated city could once boast for the holidays, but even the meager and rustic party in the town square felt grand after the last five years.

Scattered and weaving their way through the happy crowds were the heroes of Whitestone—not yet the heroes of Tal’Dorei, though that call to action was not far off, now—Vox Machina.

The six present were enjoying the festival, each in their own way—Percy and Keyleth watching the show put on for the children; Scanlan and Grog joining the arm wrestling tournament; the twins (and Trinket) trying their hands at the pie-eating competition—but all felt Pike’s absence keenly, the far-off gnome being the last piece they needed to be all together during this hard-earned celebration.

Then, in late afternoon, came the private counsel, and Vox Machina was forced to face the very real possibility of separation from another one of their own—perhaps, more permanently.

But Percy refused to stay in the city he’d long avoided, and Vox Machina began preparations for their return to Emon. They did not yet know of the months of trial and terror ahead—that this was their final time to be at complete ease all of them together for more than a year—at that point, they (mostly) were together, and it was enough.

* * *

Another, more scattered and half-forgotten Winter’s Crest had passed in the wake of dragons, devils, and destinies, and now the festival was circling back again after a year of relative quiet; and this time, the heroes of Tal’Dorei (not yet of the world, though that time was now coming, and soon) were determined to celebrate it together.

Percival and Vex’ahlia helmed preparations for the ball In Whitestone, each wondering how long their secret would or could remain hidden once they were all in one place once more. Taryon, still the newest but far more welcome after a year of personal growth, passed the time before the others arrived with Pike in the Slayer’s Cake, the two experimenting with some holiday recipes.

As soon as Grog arrived, he made a beeline for the bakery—he wasn’t planning on dressing up, he was gonna hang out with his buddy, Pike, and surely those two would need an expert taste-tester.

Vax and Keyleth arrived last, but as soon as they were able to, given Keyleth’s responsibilities now in Vesrah, and the time for the first Winter’s Crest Ball in Whitestone in seven years was soon upon them, with the promise of a beach vacation just beyond.

It was, of course, a fun, happy time—a well-earned celebration—but again, the keenly-felt absence of a gnome, this time their musical friend, kept the celebratory air from feeling complete.

And though they did not know it then, they were once more on the cusp of deadly danger and adventure that would change them all; reunions would come, yes, but losses, too: more permanent and painful than even their current prodigal situation.

Once again, though they did not know it, this was the closest to complete their group would ever be again when not fighting for their world, their lives. They were (mostly) together…

…For one, last time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You wouldn't think that it would be hard to pinpoint a time (on stream, I suppose) when all of Vox Machina was together for some downtime. At every point I thought of, one person was missing: the group was only ever whole while fighting, and that strikes me as kind of sad to think about.


	28. APART: TARY ALONE

It didn’t feel good leaving his … friends (family?), or watching them leave without him. It felt like just when he’d finally been fully welcomed as a true part of Vox Machina, the Darrington Family Drama™ just had to break in.

Still, he was needed in Wildemount, and, if he was being honest, Vox Machina had never _needed_ him—only tolerated him, perhaps come to like him, and eventually, to their mutual surprise, even _want _him around, if their farewells had been any indication.

It was an interesting, not altogether pleasant feeling the inventor found himself dealing with as he putzed about his Whitestone laboratory in a rare, reflective mood. Packing and organizing his tools and supplies had not taken long, and he had decided to get a head start on repairing Doty, as who knew when he’d next get a chance at <strike>home.</strike> <strike>the Darrington Estate.</strike> home.

** _*BMPH*_ **

Taryon froze, tool dropping from nerveless fingers.

** _*BMPH*_ **

Trembling, the young man grabbed the ominously pulsing necklace. _No._

** _*BMPH*_ **

This couldn’t be happening—they were strong—they’d gone to the hells and back without losing anybody—everybody knew that _he_ was the weak one, the one who’d be the first to get killed, or get someone else killed!

** _*BMPH*_ **

Who was it? Certainly not Grog—nothing could kill Grog… or Keyleth, for that matter. Surely the gnomes were too clever, and Vax was too quick—the others were far too skilled— _Not Vex or Percy! Please!_

** _*BMPH*_ **

_Come on, bring them back—whoever it was—I know you can; I’ve seen you do it!_

** _*BMPH*_ **

_Please!_

** _*BMPH*_ **

The ominous, uncaring pulse continued, and Tary couldn’t fight back the panic, the soul-crushing grief. Were they _all_ dead? Was _that_ why it wasn’t stopping? If he had gone with them, like they asked, could he have done something to prevent this? Or, at the very least, been the one to die instead?

** _*BMPH*_ **

**Was he alone?**

** _*BMPH*_ **

Unable to do anything else, the inventor clutched at the necklace, curled up and sobbing on the floor.

** _*BMPH*_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I literally have no excuse beyond my own forgetfulness: I was already at work before I realized I'd forgot to post this morning's chapter, so I had to wait until I got home to fix that.


	29. SEASONS: INTERIM

After the conclave, after the Aramenté, after the journey to the hells and back, Vox Machina had all parted ways for a time, not thinking of the approaching Winter’s crest, only of the peaceful time to come, and what they intended to do with it. Vax, of course, followed Keyleth to Zephrah, content to be or do whatever she needed as they all began this new season of their lives…

WINTER:

Calm came at last as they settled in, and the peace they now faced was echoed around them by a world asleep under a blanket of snow.

The clifftop village was a magnificent sight at any time, but a coating of frost and ice crystals lent a clarity and sharpness to immediate detail that took the breath away, while snowbanks and flurries blurred the distance until all that mattered—all that existed—was right here, right now, in arms’ reach (in his arms).

SPRING:

In its time, the world awoke and shed its muffling, frozen cover, emerging into new life once more.

Zephrah was no different, and when matters of business and leadership (such as establishing the crisis orb system) did not pull them away, Keyleth would lead him all through the wild areas around the village, showing him the first brave blooms of her favorite flowers as they emerged in secret nooks, or new hatchlings and litters of the wild animals she’d once played amongst. Through it all, he followed, as delighted by her delight as by the wonders she opened his eyes to.

SUMMER:

The world now buzzed with life, and heat, and storms, but with strength and hardiness as well. It was time to dig in, to drink deep, and to grow and prepare for the waning time to come.

To some, the theatre trip was a foolish thought—and afterwards they learned of the deep danger they’d unknowingly skirted—but they’d gone and come back again, and now all seemed full of an exultation; carefree and almost defiant, as plants reached full leaf, children and young animals alike played, growing strong. The very air was thick with the scent of life...and humidity.

FALL:

The world slowed, the air grew crisp, and a vibrant blush crept its way down the mountainside.

They spent more time in Whitestone, those days, between planning the coming reunion/vacation and, of course, opening the bakery, but still there was time to see Zephrah under its vibrant, autumnal cloak, and he privately held that this was the village at its best, as the sky was a clear blue, the winds called one to believe they could fly, and the leaves painted an abstract image of flame, complementing Keyleth’s hair and mantle, and making him fall in love with her and this, their home, every day: over and over again.

After their coming Winter’s Crest vacation, the cycle would begin anew, and Vax’ildan could not wait to let each season again take his breath away, every time that they came, for as long as he could live here with his druid, his love, his Keyleth.


	30. LOVE: NEAR AND FAR

**Love…**

There’s not a one of you that would claim you are there, yet. You’ve barely known each other two months, and liked each other even less. This is an alliance of convenience, safety in numbers—that kind of a thing. You respect each other’s skills more than you respect each other, and things have nearly fallen apart so many times already…

_And yet…_

And yet, there is no denying the twist in the wizard’s gut when it is discovered that three of their own were taken by unknown forces in the night. And though he tries to deny it, even in the face of a pressing goblin, Caleb steps up, abandoning indecision and conservative tactics, all while still professing motives of pure pragmatism.

_And yet…_

And yet, the half-orc warlock has already begun to confide in the group about his tusks, his time in the orphanage, and seen the others rally around a mission they’d nearly left behind, all because he asked. And though the pain, despair, and deep-rooted fears have left him convinced that there will be no help coming from their comrades, Fjord still considers himself responsible, not only for the current situation, but also the future wellbeing of his two fellow captives—however helpless he actually is.

_And yet…_

And yet, the monk who claimed to live by and rely on a creed of selfishness and self-reliance finds herself leaping into danger for reasons other than coin and adrenaline, and accepting—_seeking_—the aid of others in the rescue attempt. And though Beau remains blunt and abrasive, she does not now deny or disguise her surge of concern for the missing and recovered.

_And yet…_

And yet, the Aasimar barbarian cannot and will not claim that she is not relieved when their captors choose her to be ‘broken’ first—she knows she can bear it, so better her than the others. And though Yasha has not spoken much since their journey began, the scream that tears from her throat at the snow-covered grave site says all that is necessary about her attachment to at least one of their group.

_And yet…_

And yet, the cowardly goblin pushes on in spite of fear and in the face of dreadful loss, the first among them to attach the word ‘family’ to their little band. And though fear and failure both plague her during the final assault and rescue, it is Nott who rushes first to the lost and found, clutching close her dear Jester: “Case closed.”

_And yet…_

And yet, the tiefling cleric—by far the readiest among them to view the group as something closer than mere allies—despite her situation, focuses more on the well-being of the other two than her own, and immediately sets about trying to make them smile after their release. And though the silence of the Traveler has rocked her to the core, still she keeps humming, keeps smiling, keeps dancing and joking, all in hopes of seeing the others’ spirits lift.

_And yet…_

And yet, the tiefling blood-hunter never hesitated: while the others discussed tracks, travel, and tactics, he hurriedly and near-frantically broke camp, the faster to be on the road and after the taken. There was never any doubt in his mind that they would go after their own, and keep going until they’d found them and brought them home. And though he was barely to clinging to life and consciousness, Mollymauk didn’t hesitate to charge Lorenzo head-on, counting his own death worth it if it bought the lives of and time for his comrades, even Beau.

…

**Love… **

There’s not a one of you who would claim that you’re there, yet.

_And yet…_

** _…And yet, you might just be nearer to it than you think…_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally, I posted this fic and tomorrow's in the order of the CRInktober prompt list, with this as the final one. However, I always felt that what I wrote for the original 30th prompt would've worked better as the conclusion, so I have reversed them for this compilation.
> 
> (And yes, this was written within days of watching episode 26.)


	31. CHANGE: FRESH STARTS

**Change… Is it frightening?**

_Of course it is. You have lived this life, walked this path, worn these shoes for five years. You know this dynamic, this story, that was once only yours, but has now been shared with the world for so long. They received it well, went on this journey with you, and loved it as much as you did. But the time has now come to close this journal and open a new one—one you fear could disappoint, could lose the spark of magic it once held, or could be forced into a mold it was never meant to fit._

** _What if they hate it?_ **

** **

**Change… Is it appealing?**

_Of course it is. You have walked this path for so long, seen how it shaped and developed this person you started out creating and ended up discovering. They are a part of you now, and you have a chance to be part of it again. A new face, a new role, a new set of abilities to learn, new questions to pursue, a new person to be._

** _Who will they become?_ **

** **

**Change… Is it confusing?**

_Of course it is. There is so much you do not know anymore—your family all around you, each one a total stranger. The wrong names are constantly on the tip of your tongue, and occasionally they escape. And you are also a stranger, even to yourself, and you stare down at a list of skills, abilities and spells that now have, and, supposedly, know._

** _How does this even work?_ **

** **

**Change… Is it difficult?**

_Of course it is. You have been strong for so long, so capable and confident in your ability to accomplish the legendary, that it comes as a shock and a fright when you struggle now to survive—much less accomplish—the mundane. You have grown comfortable with an expense fund to rival (and, in part, taken from) a dragon’s hoard, but now you struggle to afford an adventurer’s base necessities. And you have been a part of a whole, a team, a party, only to find yourself one of a group of strange, suspicious assholes who have not yet learned to trust._

** _Why are you like this?_ **

** **

**Change… Is it exciting?**

_Of course it is. One door closed, one path ended, but, oh, how many open up before you, winding their way to who knows where, begging you to explore them, to delve below and discover their secrets, to let them sweep you off your feet and on to new, unexpected adventures. And you look on them, now, with fresh new eyes, a different perspective than you had before—and there is no denying that thrill._

** _Where should we go first?_ **

** **

**…**

**…Change… Is it… painful?**

_…Of course it is. You only just began this journey, but you had poured your heart, soul, and six months of work into him before the first time you brought him to life—and oh, how much life he had. But it’s all over so soon, and you scramble desperately for someone new. You find them—or begin to—and know down inside that he will grow so much, and a part of you cannot wait to experience it; but still, the grief is fresh, for now…_

** _…When does loss become gain?_ **

** **

**…**

**…But change… is it wonderful?**

_Of course it is…_

** **

** _…Of course it is!_ **

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we are at the end of the year, the decade, and this fic compilation. Thanks to everyone who checked it out here or on tumblr, and stay tuned for more to come in the new year!


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